Sins and Forgiveness
by Lady Merlin
Summary: A dark piece about Jim and the way he thinks. It's very dark, and very angry. Warning! KS, Tarsus and many swear words, and other stuff. Almost-Companion to Beginnings and Blockades. Rated for a reason.


Okay ladies and gentlemen! I'm fucking pissed at something and this is the result. Several swear words and a homosexual relationship are depicted in the piece below, along with several dark themes and a lot of anger. Basically, it's rated for a reason. I finally took the plunge and here there be mentions of lemon. KS, of course. I still own nothing, which is not really why I'm pissed, but okay.

It's not a planned fic—I let it take me where it would, so expect that. I also claim to know nothing about religion, so no offense is intended.

It's just my take on Jim and what made him the way he is.

***~*~***

Jim Kirk can never be forgiven, because he has sinned.

The padre at church, a shriveled Italian man says that when you've sinned, you should ask forgiveness from god. Jim asked, in youth, what constituted a sin. And the padre replied that life itself was a sin. He never went back to church after that, because the padre wasn't able to answer his questions. Jim discovers, later in life, that the view is not conventional. But the idea has long taken root.

He thinks he's been sinning for a long time. The first sin, the first crime he committed was when he was born. He took his fathers' life, because that's how the universe works, he's found; it takes what it gives (maybe that's why he has his fathers' eyes). And at the same time he killed his mother because god knows, his mom would have stayed with his dad if she hadn't been carrying him and maybe then she would have died happy and quick instead of lingering in agony for decades that felt like millennia, because she lost half her heart when his father died, and anyone with half a brain knows a person with half a heart isn't really alive, no matter how much they look it.

He sinned with every breath he took after that, sinned simply because he was alive. It was a deep, heavy sin, staining his soul with ink that could never be scrubbed off, or acid-bleached off, that piled on his shoulders like a mountain, weighing down his every step. He sinned because he was living on borrowed time, time he had stolen from his father. He knows there is a reason behind this, there must be. He just isn't sure what it is.

He thinks he might know, when he is on Tarsus. He thinks that maybe, when he is helping other people, saving them, the guilt is less heavy. Like he is repaying some unknown debt. He carries a small boy known only as Kev two and a half miles. He's twelve. Kev is six, half his age and almost the same weight (everyone was). Every step was almost liberating. Maybe he was touched with fever, lightheaded from the lack of food and sleep. But he felt like he had wings and he could fly. And so he develops what the series of psychologists call a hero-complex. But that's not what it is.

Heroes are selfless, sacrificing themselves for the betterment of others. He is the opposite of a hero; he's doing it for himself. But maybe, that's why he was put here. To help people. To pay off his debt. Maybe his guilt is the universes' version of monthly bills or something. It makes sense in his head.

So he goes on sacrificing. When others stay out of trouble and mind themselves, he throws himself into things. Gets into other peoples' fights for them, even when they don't appreciate it. Because the way he sees it, he's the universes' tool. Seriously, there had to be some serious shit in control for him to have survived so much. His birth was a freak-accident, and pretty much any(inanimate)thing and everything can kill him without trying (allergies) and nothing much has changed since then. So he's here doing something for some higher power (not god, because he doesn't believe in god. He called, and god never answered) and he's not going to die until it (whatever the heck it is) says so. So he's gonna take all the risks possible, fight all the bad-guys possible, save as many people as possible, because fuck, this is as close to immortality as it gets.

And it's not egoism. He doesn't have a swollen head (don't let Nyota convince you otherwise). He's not proud of what he's done because as far as he's concerned he's still the tool of something else, and no one ever thanks the spanner when it's used to fix the kitchen sink. The credit doesn't go to him and he's aware of it. He doesn't even feel proud about the immortality thing. He doesn't like it. If he had it his way, because inside he's a coward, he thinks, he'd have killed himself a long time ago, to escape this hell. Maybe that's what he's been subconsciously trying to, all this while. Maybe he's so close when he does something dangerous and stupid and life-threatening, so close to death, that the adrenaline rush gets him on a high and he feels less guilty. It's actually more likely than the higher-power idea.

But Jim still goes with his original idea. It's somehow easier to think that, than to think he's so crappy he can't even off himself right.

When they encounter the Guardian of Forever, Jim thinks he could cry, because this is it. This is what's been fucking controlling his life, and imagine what he felt like when the Guardian talks to him alone, in his head. He sits there for hours as the Guardian speaks in a low rhythmic mental voice, and the people around him panic because what the fuck is going on with Jim? Why isn't he moving?

Speaking to The Guardian, he thinks he might be Luke Skywalker with a hero-complex talking to Darth Vader, for the first and last time (because the _Enterprise_ may never come back here, and if she does, he might not be alive).

But the Guardian spouts a lot of crap he can't quite accept. Stuff about this being the first dimension in which Jim Kirk had all these issues, but how, in all other dimensions, Jim Kirk is as great as he is here and Jim wonders if he can get in contact with the other Jims' because he needs some advice and he's not ashamed to ask for it (at least, not from himself). Then the Guardian tells him that this is the first dimension in which Jims' dad died when he was born, and Jim begins to think that maybe there's something bigger than the Guardian because there _has_ to be some reason he's this way. There must be some thing that changed his inverted-commas destiny. He doesn't think he can accept the idea that that's just the way it was (is?).

The Guardian tells him that there _is_ no higher power and Jim slips from its fucking mind-lecture, because he won't believe that. The agony kills and he passes out, and the shield the Guardian or someone puts up in his mind is so strong that even Spock can't get through. That's fine with Jim, because he doesn't know what he'd have done if Spock had found out about him.

That night, for the first time in a long time, he dreams of Tarsus and wakes up screaming bloody murder. (Spock and Bones waste no time in turning up at his bedside) Spock thinks the Guardian put something in his head, some bug or brain-virus, or his all-time-favourite: brain spores. But he knows what he was seeing, and tells them to forget it, that he knows what it is. Bones is suspicious and Spock just looks at him, as if trying to unravel him with his eyes. It's deeply discomfiting and at the same time Jim thinks no man (or alien) has ever got so close to him as that. Except the other (older) Spock, who is, technically, still Spock. Apparently this Spock thinks so too.

In a few hours he gets a call from the old-Spock, asking what's going on because nothing like that happened when _they_ visited the Guardian. And Jim is so fucking irrationally pissed that he cuts the line, nevermind that it must have been hell to get to Jim in the first place. He can't believe that Spock told on him to… well. Himself.

When he puts it that way it _does_ sound ridiculous, but fuck if he was to be blamed.

Then one night Kev (yes, the same one) comes to him and tells him he can't sleep. He lets the kid stay in his room, and obviously because Jim Kirk is such a demented frat boy, everyone gets the same idea and they don't say anything but shoot him glares for being a lecherous old bastard. Then the Admiralty calls and he politely tells Pike that he knows Kev from somewhere, and yes he is aware of the non-fraternization rule and no, he isn't breaking it, he swears on his Captaincy. Pike looks at him suspiciously because he probably thinks Jim is a demented frat-boy too, and Jim loses it and tells him that they were on Tarsus together, _fuck_ it.

Pikes face loses colour, and he says sorry and cuts the connection. Jim shouldn't have said it; he knows he shouldn't have, when it leaks out somehow that the 'fleets' Golden Boy was a survivor of the most hideous massacre the Federation had ever witnessed. He protects Kev and takes the brunt of the thing himself (that's why he's here, remember?). It's not too bad when they're in space (he suspects Spock and Bones secretly terrorize the crew to keep them from bothering Jim) but he's hounded whenever he's on a Federation planet.

Somehow this increases his fame on non-Federation planets because the people there, suffering through similar horrors everyday can easier put their trust in someone who's been there. And the Admiralty takes full advantage of that, sending the _Enterprise_ off to get more and more worlds' to join the Federation. Jim's okay with that. It keeps him distracted. He reminds himself that he has sinned, and that he _is_ a sin, and that he's here on the mercy and bidding of a higher power. He's a tool. He doesn't have the right to be angry. And he lives his life, thinking no one would notice his resolution.

He smiles and no one notices. That's the way it should be.

Then one day Spock corners him (they're tight now. Spock doesn't ask questions and neither does Jim and they're good together) and demands to know ("tell me"). And Jim doesn't know what Spock wants to know, and doesn't think Spock knows either.

And somehow _that_ conversation ended up with the two of them locked in his room naked and sweaty, hot tongues pushing into mouths as hot cocks pushed hard into over-sensitized bodies and nails drew trails across unmarked skin, burning. There is no image in Jims' mind except of Spock. There is nothing except Spock's touch. Jim thinks (thought?) this might just be love, because he's never had sex like this, never before. And at some point, from anger and tension and biting and sharp angles, something loosened and became smooth and dark and easy, like their muscles had no resistance to this feeling oh-so-right.

Completion is withheld from both sides, and when they finally reach, they reach together, and Jim wants _this_ to be the story of his life. He wants Spock, _so bad_. He wants forever, and he thinks he wanted too much when he wakes up alone.

Then it's weird for a long time. For months, maybe. No one realises, they don't see anything. But for Jim who had nothing before and once tasted everything, the absence of _that_ (whatever the fuck it was) is agonizing. It doesn't leave him alone. Spock is still there, of course. He wouldn't go away. But he's not there like he used to be, and Jim figures that he never realised but has always been attracted to Spock. Or at least, he doesn't remember a time when he wasn't attracted to Spock.

For a good while he tries to figure out why Spock is pretending nothing happened. He thinks. Maybe the sex wasn't as great to Spock as it was to him. Maybe he's still bonded to someone else, or some other repressed Vulcan thing. But then it occurs to him that maybe Spock didn't want it, and his heart pounding he re-examines the scene. _"Tell me." _

"_Tell you what?" _

"_Just tell me." _

"_Spock, you're not making sense here. What? What happened?" _

"_Tell me about you. Tell me your story. Tell me what has made you this way, what made you so angry. Tell me—" _and Jim had cut him off by kissing him with teeth, and then realises with a sinking heart that Spock had never indicated his interest. Jim had just gone with it when Spock didn't fight back. But that might have been the stupidest thing ever. Spock might not have wanted it. In fact, he definitely didn't want it; he was a Vulcan. Being gay was probably the most fucking illogical thing _ever_. And he wouldn't have resisted, because it was Jim and Jim was his captain and Spock was the most loyal guy he knew, and he thinks, _fuck_, I've screwed up.

But Spock had thrust back with passion and had kissed back with heat. Jim wouldn't have mistaken that desire; he couldn't have. And in a mix of fury and fear he knocks on Spocks' door and Uhura is inside but leaving and Spock says that he does not wish to speak to Jim, could he please leave?

And Jim says no. Uhura vanishes and Jim thinks maybe she put two and two together. The door slides shut and Spock turns away but does not protest Jims' presence. "Did you not want it?" he asks, suddenly quiet and drained. He knows this is a mistake, but he desires like he never has in his entire life. He _burns_. He should have known; should have expected. Jim Kirk does not deserve, and hence should not ask. But he was asking now.

"Did you?" Spock shoots back quietly, and Jim thinks that maybe Spock thinks the same thing as him, that he forced Jim into something.

There is a moment and Jim nods and even though Spock is looking the other way he turns around, studying. Spock probably doesn't know why Jim is nodding and what it signifies, and Jim isn't sure either. But he's sure of one thing. He _did_ want it. He still does. He thinks he might, forever, if Spock will give it.

"Yeah, I did." He says aloud, and Spock's eyes widen and he's so beautiful that Jim is drawn in and can't escape and Spock's suddenly kissing him again and they know where this is going but it's not like last time. It's not angry or impatient. It's long and drawn out and the most fucking erotic thing Jim has ever done and the anger and tension that's been bottled up inside for god-knows-how-many-years is released; spilling out every-time he is given release.

And then when they come to, Spock touches his mind and Jim allows it for the first time and everything comes spilling out like a flood from the biggest dam ever. And Spock knows everything. He knows everything Jim has ever thought, and Jim can feel he is overwhelmed. In return he feels Spocks' mind. He feels what it was like to be utterly alone, even when surrounded by life, and thinks that they're not that different because he's felt like that too.

And Spock is shocked when he hears/reads/feels the thought that Jim was living on borrowed time. He's openly (mentally?) horrified. In life he gathers Jims' body close and with his heart pounding faster than ever before under Jims' fingers he swears that if Jim even considers himself expendable again, Spock will kill himself, and _that_ is a thought Jim can't stand.

He still thinks he's expendable (he cannot be forgiven for his sins), of course; nothing will change a lifetime of habit. But he can't stand the idea that instead of saving a life he could take one, especially one so dear to him.

And then Spock says something to him that renders him breathless, for no apparent reason. He is a genius and everything so Jim should have expected something like this. Some life-changing revelation. But not like this. All Spock says is, _"I forgive you." _

Jim can't breathe, can't speak, can't respond. But he feels liberated like he did when he was carrying Kev in Tarsus, and when he was driving that red corvette off the cliff in Iowa when he was eleven. He feels like he's grown wings and is soaring towards the heavens and free-falling at the same time, and Spock is the wind beneath his wings and gravity all in one, and he fucking doesn't get it because Spock didn't have to forgive him in the first place.

But you know what? He doesn't care, he thinks as he kisses Spock in joy. He doesn't give a damn, and later figures that he just needed to hear the words, and hearing them from someone so important to him must have clicked in his mind. He still doesn't care. He's a Captain, not a psychologist. And as far as he knows he's fixed (was he broken?) and he'll stay that way as long as Spock's with him.

Maybe, the thinks, it's because Spock didn't deny he had sinned. He simply accepted, then forgave, and in the end that made all the difference, because he _had_ been forgiven.

***~*~***

Okay whoa. It took four hours to write this, non-stop. I'm feeling better, which could explain the changed mood towards the end. It's still a very personal fic, so I hope the message gets through. I don't know how clear I was when writing it; makes sense to me, but who knows what it looks like the everyone else?

You do, of course. So let me know, yeah? REVIEW. Make me feel even better. I'm just gonna go find somewhere to sleep now. *is exhausted*

Love,

Lady Merlin


End file.
